Forced from the safety of her elevated abode, Abigail moved further outside of the incorporated city limits and into a minority housing area made up of mostly Hispanic families and migrant American Indian workers who shuffled on and off the Paiute Tribe’s reservation to live in the adobe-looking flats lining Highway 578.
Named after Abigail’s favorite actor, her son, Jack, had grown up in that housing area. Mother and son were befriended by many of the families; wives often babysat Jack so Abigail could continue working two of her remaining jobs. It wasn’t until his third birthday party that Ricky arrived in his brother’s borrowed Z-28 Camaro to play daddy.
Chapter 3
Eighteen-wheelers dusted along Highway 578. The created rush of wind jerked at the three helium Happy Birthday balloons tied to a knotted fence railing. Twenty small kids chased each other until one fell down then nineteen scurried for parents to offer alibis. It was a wonderfully mixed community. Still the only Nordic-looking resident, Abigail and her Sicilian-toned boy blended into the polychromatic culture of transient living.
The late afternoon sun relaxed to allow Jack and the community kids to enjoy a fun birthday celebration. Abigail squinted against the brightness, and her broad smile etched a few lines across her otherwise smooth face. She busied herself holding down a borrowed tablecloth that flapped each time a vehicle zipped past the vacant lot adjacent to the highway.
She’d finally found a small slice of dingy heaven she could call home. It was better than what she’d known growing up, and the only dumpster on the property wasn’t for diving into after meals. Abigail chuckled as she watched Jack try to keep up with the older kids. She swatted away flies that dive-bombed the off-the-shelf birthday cake. The ice cream was melting fast, so she tried to rustle the gang over to the rickety picnic bench to begin the celebration.
Swiping long, twisty strands of blonde hair off her face, she watched the slow roll of the old sports car. It crunched across the hard-dried mud and pea-gravel highway shoulder until the faring scraped against the entrance to the beveled-bottom parking lot.
Ricky was alone, but she saw the silhouette of a baby’s safety seat in the rear. Her heart quickened. Shit, she had no way of defending herself or Jack. The nightmare that had kept her awake for years had just become a reality.
He smiled like a jackal as he walked up. “Happy birthday son, your daddy’s back.”
“Please go, Ricky.” Abigail pressed both hands against his chest.
“No way in hell. I love that boy. Which one is he?” His slitted gaze darted from child to child.
“You got no right to be here. You ain’t got a legal order.” She looked him dead in the eye and said the words as if she knew what the hell she was talking about. In actuality all she knew about the law was to not break it, and what she’d learned by watching Judge Judy.
He shoved his hand deep into his back pocket and yanked out a crumpled piece of paper. Purposefully taking a long time to unfold it, he flapped it in her face.
She bit down hard on her bottom lip. Her left arm folded across her chest, while her right picked at the cheap gold cross hanging around her neck.
“Got myself an emergency order from the judge, herself. Said she couldn’t imagine what kind of woman would hide a son away from its father. That judge told me to come and get my boy.”
She didn’t bother looking at the papers. Ricky had anyone who could be bought in his back pocket. It made no difference to her what the form might say.
He waved the papers in her face so the sharp corner sliced a thin line just beneath her cheek. Her head jerked back. Before he could do it again she snatched the papers from his hand and tore them in two.
“I don’t give a shit what it says. You got no right being here.”
His backhand caught her off guard, though she should’ve been expecting it. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt the bite of the gaudy diamond ring he wore on his pinky.
Her head snapped back and she went to her knees, her vision blurry. The coppery tang of blood filled the inside of her mouth. She spit it out at his feet. She shook her head once—twice—trying to clear her mind, and tried to get back to her feet.
She hated that she’d never been strong enough to face him down when the stakes were high. The bliss hadn’t lasted long with Ricky. But long enough for a few broken bones and the baby she would’ve suffered through a multitude of broken bones to protect.
His hand tangled in her hair and jerked her head back. “You were saying, bitch?”
Her eyes rolled side to side. It did no good to fight. He was too strong.
“It’s his birthday, Ricky,” she pleaded. “Don’t be this way. He doesn’t even know who you are.” Her words tumbled one on top of the other as her panic grew. “You—you don’t even have a home for him. No toys or his bed.”
A semi flew by. Dust and grit flew into her face. She blinked rapidly and felt sand between her teeth. The sounds of laughter and conversation were no more. The party had been abandoned. Just like her. Heat radiated down on her skin until she thought it would crack like the fissures in the dirt lot. Fear clawed at her belly.
“I done hit it rich, baby. A cool quarter-million-dollar deal. Had to pay a pilot twenty grand, but it was worth it. So, yeah, I got me and my boy a crib to crash.”
She bit back a whimper as he jerked at her hair again. He’d fucked someone over for that cash. Only Ricky was too ignorant to realize those same people would come looking for him.
Her eyes rolled again toward the partygoers gathered beneath the metal-framed community pavilion that looked as if one strong gust of wind would topple it to the ground. She desperately sought to make eye contact with someone—anyone—to beg for help. But no one glanced in her direction. She could only be grateful they hadn’t left Jack alone to watch her suffer. It was his party after all.
But in a fleeting community of illegals and most wanted, it was always the practice to mind your own damn business. Besides, she’d noticed the 9mm pistol shoved in his waistband—chances were, they had too.
She scratched at his wrist, but he slapped her unpainted fingernails away from the new Rolex.
“Ricky, please not today,” she begged, knowing her options were limited. He’d do whatever the hell he wanted and she was powerless to stop him. “Tomorrow, okay?”
“Bitch, go get my boy,” he demanded as he drew his fist back. She flinched, waiting for the pain and crunch of breaking bones. But he laughed instead.
Her hands came up and she grabbed at the front of his shirt. “Pl…please, Ricky. Let me come and help you take care of him. I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.”
He still had hold of her hair. He pulled it so tight she couldn’t close her eyes all the way. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She cursed her weakness. Any sign she showed would only make Ricky worse. He didn’t know the meaning of the word compassion. Especially not for the woman who’d carried his son. And not likely for the son himself.
“I never recall you being such a crying bitch,” he said with derision. “I find it irritating.”
A scream choked in her throat when the cold metal of his gun knocked against her teeth and the barrel was shoved in her mouth.
“Stop your sniveling or I’ll pull the trigger and let the boy watch your brains scatter in the wind. And that will irritate me even more because who else am I going to find to watch the brat when I’m not training him to take over daddy’s business?”
Abigail froze, too terrified to breathe.
He shoved the barrel a little harder in her mouth and then leaned in close, so his lips whispered against the corner of her mouth.
“Mmm, baby. I always did love that look of terror on your face.” His tongue darted out. He licked a long, wet path from chin to cheekbone. “Gets me hard every time. Want to go a round in the Camaro like old times?”